I have my own death and dying fantasies. Some are healthy, some are morbid. I don't hope to die in my sleep. Why miss the event entirely? I hope for some advance notice; maybe three months. Then I can produce my very own docu-drama, attend my own memorial, receive all those overdue accolades, and generally luxuriate in a warm bath of self-pity...
Tiny Oswald is allowing me to experience some of this. He is doing well, on a day-to-day basis, his coat is glowing from the tuna fish he scarfs with his lop-sided maw. His meow is slightly altered, a little less persistent, still endearing. He leaves the sanctuary of the bedroom more often and hangs out with us on the couch.
In short, it's hard to imagine this guy is leaving us. But he is...
Last night we watched A Christmas Carol. The new animated one, with Jim Carroll as Scrooge. It was excellent. At the end Lynda turned to me, accusingly, and said I had told her Tiny Tim was "...not going to make it..."
What the fuck!?
Have we not been watching A Christmas Carol for about fifty years? Do we not know how the story goes? Yes, Tiny Tim "makes it..." and he is alive, even now, hopping happily down the streets of London. Tiny Oswald, on the other hand, is a tuna-eating terminal patient and my guess is the vet's prognosis will be just about right on the money. My other guess is that Lynda and I will continue to wish all of that away because that's just what you do under these circumstances. You open another tin of tuna and put one paw in front of the other....
What is the vet's prognosis?
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